A New Dawn
by OrangeShipper
Summary: New Year's Eve, 1919. On the brink of a new decade, the Crawleys welcome in the new year. The dawn of 1920 holds so much promise after years of war, but will the world be so very different? Now AU!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: _I've wanted to write a fic of this type for a very long time, and finally some inspiration struck. I shan't say any more than that for now! This chapter is very much setting the scene._

_Huge thanks to Silverduck for beta-ing! _

_Aaaand I hope you enjoy! :)  
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><p><strong><span>A New Dawn<span>**

A sense of merriment pervaded the air in the grand dining room. They were on the brink, teetering, ready to put the years of war and turmoil behind them, looking ahead to a fresh new decade. One of peace. Happiness. For this precious moment, the future at last seemed bright, as though nothing could shatter it.

"I think," Robert announced grandly, "that we should drink to the new year ahead."

"Hear, hear!" Sybil chorused cheerfully. "A year where I'd like to hear nothing at all about a war, not a single thing, thank you!"

"Absolutely…" Matthew murmured in agreement, the sentiment very evidently shared by all around the table.

Though the war itself had ended a little over a year ago, the family had not been free of it for many months after. The extensive clean-up operation in France had taken a great deal of time and effort; the devastated villages, the ravaged countryside, the unceremonious heaps of bodies all had to be dealt with. Matthew had spent several months assisting, still under army commission; the driving experience he'd gained in the last months of the war following his recovery proving invaluable in the transport of materials and waste. Though it had been a deeply unpleasant task, it had at least engendered a far greater sense of pride and satisfaction in Matthew than destroying it all in the first place had.

As for the rest of the household, it felt as though things were only just beginning to return to normal. One could not simply throw out all the wounded on the announcement of peace; demobilisation had to be waited for, wounds still needed healing, and even once the last soldier had departed there was still the house itself to consider. Whilst Sybil had continued her nursing duties at the hospital and Edith had continued working on the estate, Mary and her mother had thrown themselves into restoring the Abbey into a home fit for an earl.

Finally, now, it was all over. Though things would never be as they once were, and the traces of the war would always remain upon them, at least now they could look upon the future with hope.

"And let's not forget to be grateful that we are all here, in one piece, and all that we have to look forward to." As Cora added to her husband's toast, she threw a knowing smile in Matthew's direction, and at her eldest daughter seated beside him, who squeezed his hand under the table.

"For goodness' sake! It will be 1920 already by the time we've made the toast if we carry on like this," Violet sniped, her arm tiring from having held her glass up in readiness for far too long now.

"To the year ahead!" Robert boomed over the laughter, as they all clinked glasses. "And with that," he continued once they had settled again, "I think I shall leave you to the rest of the evening."

"Darling?" Cora peered inquisitively at her husband.

"You know I've been feeling a little peaky all day, dear. It seems to be catching up with me, rather. A good night's sleep and I'll be right as rain."

Isobel frowned at the earl. "What exactly do you mean by 'peaky'?"

"Mother…" Matthew looked despairingly at her.

"No, Matthew, it's quite alright." Robert smiled weakly, but with a little indulgence, at Isobel. She was very well-intentioned, he had to admit that. "It's nothing, really. A slight temperature, that's all. A bit of rest will cure it, I'm sure."

"I see." Though every instinct in Isobel itched to pry him further, she conceded that the dinner table was not the best place to do so. In any case, Robert was quite right; a good night's sleep cured all manner of ills. "Bed is probably the best place for you, then, but please do fetch Doctor Clarkson if you feel at all unwell in the morning – one can never be too cautious, particularly at the moment."

Robert nodded dutifully, catching Matthew's eye with a slight smile. With a final raise of his glass to the table, he stood, kissed his wife tenderly on the cheek, bid them all goodnight and left.

His departure left Matthew alone in the midst of the Crawley women. He sat back and eyed them slightly nervously; they all seemed to be looking at him.

"Well, Matthew," Cora smiled brilliantly at him. "Shall you remain here and drink to the new year alone, or will you dare to join us women in the drawing room straight away?"

Matthew smiled and opened his mouth to reply, jumping a little as Mary's hand under the table daringly brushed over his leg.

"So long as you don't object to my intrusion upon your after-dinner chatter, I think I'll join you."

Violet simply raised her eyebrows. No, things were not how they once were.

As they walked through to the drawing room, Mary looped her hands through Matthew's elbow, still relishing the freedom to openly do so. She smiled at the feel of their sides bumping together as they walked.

"I always knew you weren't entirely proper," she teased gently. "Joining the ladies immediately after dinner, indeed! I'm afraid Granny nearly had a fit."

"Would you rather I'd stayed behind?" He raised an eyebrow challengingly.

"What do you suppose?"

He merely smiled, glancing behind before pressing a swift kiss to her cheek. "I suppose that when we are married, I'm sure you'll appreciate those precious minutes with my mother after dinner, for the sake of propriety!"

"You know, Matthew," she hastily cut in, "I think I might approve of a little impropriety now and again!"

Wriggling his arm free, Matthew slid it snug around her waist, murmuring softly into her ear. "Might you, now…"

"Matthew!" Mary exclaimed in a hushed whisper, slapping his arm playfully. Her attempted glare was refuted somewhat by the sparkle in her eyes.

"I know, I know," he chuckled, then a more sincere expression came over his face. His hand slid up to the top of her shoulders, thumb brushing softly across the delicate skin of her neck. "Darling, it's been… five years, now, since I first proposed to you? Two weeks more is nothing, believe me."

Mary shivered at the intent in his eyes, a shy smile trembling over her lips. He might be able to bear it well enough, had had to learn patience and restraint over the years of the war – her eyes pressed closed as she tried not to think of Lavinia – but to her, even the two weeks remaining until their wedding seemed the most unbearably long time to wait.

Smiling warmly at the contentment spreading through him as he looked at her and touched her, Matthew still couldn't quite believe that he was finally going to marry Mary. Part of him still couldn't grasp how it had taken this long. He refused to consider his relationship with Lavinia as a mistake, though – he _had_ needed that comfort, during the war, and he could hold nothing against her now. She was utterly lovely, had cared deeply for him, as he had for her… But as the war had drawn to a close, when he had finally returned to England and been forced to consider with more seriousness how to rebuild his life in peacetime, he had grown increasingly unsure about the whole thing. Over the war, and even more so after his injury, Matthew had realised that his security and his future lay at Downton, something that Lavinia had struggled to reconcile herself to. And as they spent more time together upon Matthew's return – real time, not time borrowed on snatched leaves and through letters – it had dawned upon him with startling clarity that no matter how lovely she was, how sweet or kind or pretty… She was not _Mary_. Mary who had haunted him and plagued him and who he knew that, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, would always have possession of his heart.

And so, painful though it was, Matthew had released Lavinia from their engagement. She was heartbroken, and it cut him deeply to do it. But he was comforted by the conviction that ultimately, he could never have made her happy, as she could not him. And he had returned to Downton, a free man. It had taken time, of course it had taken time, they were both damaged and hurt, but, gradually, he and Mary had grown closer once more. Both had been determined that this time, nothing would stand in their way, and if it took months to reach a point where they could both be sure of that, then so be it. By the time he finally asked her for the last time to be his wife (there was no hesitation in her answer this time), on Christmas day just a week ago, the whole family had been expecting it with joyous anticipation. They would wait only as long as it took for the banns to be read.

In the warmly lit drawing room, they passed the hours until midnight in a spirit of hopeful excitement. This year, more than any other they could remember for years, the promise of the new year ahead seemed to hold so much. Cora watched with a fond, matriarchal eye as Sybil became giddy on too much wine and continued to badger Edith, who was trying to read, Violet and Isobel continued to split hairs as they discussed how the world was changing, and Mary and Matthew simply looked enraptured at each other as they talked about anything and everything.

Finally, the clock rang midnight. With enthusiastic cheers from all (bar Violet, who considered the whole affair slightly ridiculous), the Crawleys saw in the start of the new year, and indeed the new decade.

"1920… Goodness, it sounds strange, doesn't it!" Sybil wondered as she slumped into a plush chair.

"No stranger than 1910 did at the time, I'm sure," drawled Edith. "Really, Sybil, you're supposed to be the progressive one."

"I didn't say it was a bad thing! Just strange, that's all!"

"Well," Matthew cut in, "I'm sure it'll sound perfectly normal in no time at all. Considering what this past decade brought us, personally, the sound of a new one is music to my ears." He smiled through the heaviness of his words. "Though," he swiftly added, "it certainly hasn't all been bad. There _are_ things that have come from it which I'm glad of, which I wouldn't change now for the world." His expression was sincere and meaningful. Despite the upheaval he'd suffered, he knew as he stood with his hand warmly on Mary's back that it had all been worth it.

"Well said, Matthew," Cora smiled warmly. There were things about the past few years they all wished to put behind them, no doubt, but the disguised blessings they had brought could certainly not be forgotten.

Isobel suddenly stood up purposefully. "I quite agree. Though I'm afraid, with the passing of years, I am not getting any younger and need my beauty sleep!"

Violet simply coughed into her handkerchief.

"Of course," Matthew stood up a little straighter and stepped slightly away from Mary. "Sorry, Mother. Cousin Cora, please do excuse us – thank you for a delightful evening."

"Not at all, Matthew, thank you both for coming," Cora breezed as she stood.

The family traipsed outside to bid them goodbye. It seemed right to, considering the occasion, but besides that the Crawley ladies were all quietly enthralled still by Matthew's recent purchase of a motorcycle and sidecar. He'd gained experience of them towards the end of the war, and had decided to treat himself to one for Christmas, with the justification that it was easier on his legs than his old bicycle.

Violet cast her eyes disparagingly over the affair as Isobel clambered into the sidecar, with as much grace as she could muster.

"Really, Matthew, I thought you'd have experienced quite enough mortal danger during the war without willingly throwing yourself into it in this manner," the dowager countess sniffed.

Matthew simply laughed graciously as his mother snapped back. "Really, it's quite safe! And Matthew's a very good driver!"

"Oh, I think it looks marvellous," Sybil slurred excitedly. "Matthew, you must take me out in it next week, I'd love to try it out! Mary, what's it like?"

Matthew grinned and raised his eyebrows amusedly at Mary, a flash of understanding passing between them as both recalled the afternoon they'd spent together the week before. They had rode out to Ripon, sneaking into Matthew's refurbished office which was closed for the season and sharing tender kisses and embraces in the privacy they found there.

"Utterly thrilling! Far more exciting than the car." She turned to her grandmother and smiled sweetly. "Really though, Granny, Matthew's terribly safe with it – I think if he could manage to ride one decently over dug-up roads in France, Downton hardly provides much challenge – you should try it!"

"Certainly not – I can imagine nothing more unladylike!" Violet looked quite horrified at the suggestion, turning her eyes pointedly to Isobel.

As they continued to argue about the relative merits (or lack thereof) of the motorcycle, Matthew took his leather jacket from Carson and shrugged it on over his evening wear.

"Much as I would love to hear the outcome of this, we really must be going – Happy New Year! And give our best to Lord Grantham in the morning, please."

"Yes, do make sure he rests well, and call Doctor Clarkson in the morning – it is best to be on the safe side!" Isobel continued to call out advice on Robert's condition as Matthew kissed Mary swiftly on the cheek and climbed onto the motorcycle. Making sure his mother was sitting securely in the sidecar, he turned back and waved.

Accompanied by chorusing cries of 'Happy New Year' from the door, Matthew started the engine and accelerated away, the back wheel throwing up a spray of gravel and a deafening noise, much to Violet's chagrin and the girls' amusement.

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><p>The next morning, Matthew awoke late. The feeling of having nowhere to go and nothing to do was quite glorious. Squinting against the cold, bright sunshine streaming through the window, he rose, stretched luxuriously and rang for Molesley. Dear Molesley, he thought fondly. It had been one of the hardest things to become re-accustomed to following the war; the whole notion of being served upon after the squalor of the trenches had seemed ridiculous enough, but to readjust to the services of a valet even more so. When he had lived in the same sodden, lice-ridden uniform for days, weeks at a time, boots practically rotting from mud and his shirt seeming to fuse to his skin after long enough, to be assisted in getting dressed multiple times a day once more had been hard to swallow. Though in some ways, it was these little routines of normality that he had clung to, that had helped him to settle and ground himself back into 'real' life that had been the most important. The difficulty of it battled against his almost need for it.<p>

He took a late breakfast, glancing over the newspaper as he ate. The world didn't seem any different, really. It was funny, he thought, how it felt as though it _should _feel different, the first day of a new year. But nothing had changed. It all ticked over as normal, just the same as it always had. In some ways it all seemed rather dull, no longer having to live on perpetual tenterhooks.

Feeling restless, Matthew sipped his tea. His mother was busy at the hospital – today, even; the sick would not stop being sick just for the holiday season! She had light-heartedly suggested that Matthew pop along if he was bored, but he had no desire, absolutely none at all, to be around any of that. Mary was spending the day paying charitable calls on some of her father's tenants; he might have joined her in that but he knew how she valued her independence in these matters and, in any case, he would not have any idea where to find her.

For a while, he read. He did some work. He wrote some letters. He read some more. By early afternoon, though, he was unspeakably bored. He'd grown used to boredom, weeks at a time of simply waiting; waiting for the next orders, the next attack, with precious little to occupy him in the meantime. And in a strange way, he missed that thrill when the orders finally came, the terrible adrenaline that would surge through him during midnight raids, the sheer rush of _action_. Horrific though it all had been, at least then he'd been _doing_, rather than _waiting_.

With a sudden rush of resolve, he announced to Molesley simply that he was going out. Pulling on his jacket, Matthew went out to the motorcycle. It was cold out, the roads would be empty. They would also be icy, he knew, but he was an experienced rider by now and could handle it. Mary had been right, the conditions he'd faced in France had been far worse than this. It only took a moment's work for Matthew to detach the sidecar to grant him better speed and handling. Though he set out moderately through the village, once he reached the open road he accelerated rapidly, grinning as he felt exhilaration flood through him, fields and streams and hedgerows rushing past. And the beauty of it was that there was no horror attached to this exhilaration.

By the time he returned to Crawley House, motorcycle chugging with a horrible guttering sound as it limped into the driveway, it was late in the evening. Matthew was cold, damp, exhausted. His legs ached dreadfully.

Apologies began spilling from his lips even as he entered the hallway, knowing that his mother would be mindless with worry by now. He smiled apologetically at Molesley, who looked strangely startled as he took Matthew's jacket.

"I'm back, Mother. I'm terribly sorry – I broke down out on the back road to York. Ridiculous thing, I'll have to take it to the mechanic," he called out as he walked down the hall towards the sitting room, staring tiredly at the carpet. "I didn't have the tools at hand to patch it up myself and had to push it for miles to the –"

As he stepped into the sitting room, leaning back against the doorframe wearily, the sight of his mother shocked him into silence. She sat, her face utterly expressionless, simply staring somewhere into the middle of the room with blank, unseeing eyes. In her hand was clutched a crumpled piece of paper with a hastily scrawled note.

"Mother, what on earth is the matter?" His own troubles forgotten, Matthew crossed the room to her instantly, crouching by her side and laying his hand on her shoulder, rubbing in gentle, comforting circles. "Mother?"

Slowly, Isobel seemed to realise his presence. She blinked and turned to look at him, her expression utterly unreadable. Her lips opened and closed several times, attempting to speak, but unable to form any words for a few moments. Matthew waited patiently, brows knitted in concern.

"Lord Grantham –" she eventually stammered in a barely audible whisper. An aura of heaviness seemed to weight her, her words and her whole being. "Matthew, he – he passed away this evening."

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading! Reviews are always hugely appreciated! Thank you! :)_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: _I'm so sorry this has taken me such a ridiculously long time to update! I just couldn't find the inspiration, and I didn't want to force it unless it felt like happening naturally._

_Anyway, here is chapter 2. It's still very much a 'setting-the-scene' feel, though I think it needs to be dealt with. I hope you enjoy it!  
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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>_  
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_Passed away. Lord Grantham passed away._

His mother's words ricocheted around his head, and he was grasping, grasping at them but they kept on chasing out of reach, he couldn't hold them… Reeling, he sank to the floor against the couch, hand slipping down his mother's arm.

"What?" he whispered, staring blankly ahead at the flickering fire in the grate. He started as he felt Isobel's hand clasp over his own.

"Cousin Robert, Matthew. Lord Grantham – as was." Her voice was trembling as the implication of it sank in. "He's gone."

But that would mean… It couldn't.

"He can't be!" Matthew spluttered quietly. He could not, _would_ not believe it. "We saw him only yesterday, he can't –"

"Matthew," this time it was Isobel's turn to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. She waited a moment until she felt his tense agitation settle before she continued calmly – somehow, Matthew's distress seemed to calm her own, as she recognised his need for solidarity. It was a shock for all of them, for anyone, but for Matthew… "It was that awful flu," she explained. "You know how suddenly it comes on. He worsened dramatically over the course of the day, and, this evening… Well."

A heavy sigh shuddered out of Matthew, and Isobel rubbed his shoulder comfortingly.

"God."

For several minutes, they sat in silence. Matthew's head was still spinning uncontrollably, he felt as though he must be dreaming – the weight of the news was simply too much for him to take in. The thought kept pricking into his mind, but he denied it, refused to acknowledge it – _you are the Earl of Grantham. The bloody Earl of Grantham._

Eventually, his mind kicked him into action. Sitting doing nothing about something was not in Matthew's custom, but… he didn't know what to _do_. Leaping to his feet suddenly, to the shock of Isobel, he paced up and down with a sudden urgency.

"Do you think I should go up? No, it's too late, they wouldn't want – but I should do _something_, they have to know that I – should I write a note?"

"Matthew, dear, do calm down," Isobel said softly, but firmly. "Going up at this time of night is unthinkable – write a note, yes, that's probably for the best. And you can go up tomorrow."

"Yes. Yes…" he muttered to himself, crossing to the small table and pulling out a sheet of paper.

His pen hovered above the crisp, white sheet, but… what on earth was he supposed to write? What could he possibly say? He could hardly bear to think of their distress, and would it seem unwelcome coming from him – who was to benefit so from the circumstance? Oh, but surely they knew by now how little that mattered to him! He couldn't possibly give any comfort, but if he didn't attempt to, then… Lord, it was so difficult! Isobel watched him in concern as he tensed in frustration.

After agonising minutes of indecision, he scrawled out an entirely unsatisfactory message, having resigned himself to not being able to say anything useful. It just would not be possible.

He pulled another sheet of paper towards him and wrote again, with less hesitation this time, placing it into a separate envelope which he addressed to Mary.

With the short notes quickly dispatched to the Abbey, despite the late hour, Matthew's task was complete and he once more fell into a restless pacing. His exhaustion from his fairly disastrous outing was not helping matters, and his leg began to ache with a vengeance until he slumped into his usual armchair, pursing his lips sourly in thought.

"Go to bed, dear," Isobel instructed him firmly. His turmoil was evident on his face, and she knew there was no way for him to appease it just now. "We're all in a terrible shock, Matthew; you won't possibly achieve anything by stewing over it now. Get some rest – I'm sure you'll have lots to arrange tomorrow."

Her words seemed to spark something in him, and he suddenly turned to her with wide, pleading, almost desperate eyes. Isobel's heart ached for her son, as she saw his chest visibly rise and fall as he heaved in deep, steadying breaths. At his look of sheer panic, she tutted comfortingly; instinctively rose and went to kiss the top of his head as she had used to do when he was a little boy, resting her hands on his shoulders. Except her little boy was a little boy no more, she thought ruefully. He was a man – a soldier – an Earl. She smiled as his hand clasped over hers on his shoulder, and he blinked up at her, looking so vulnerable.

"I'm not ready for this, Mother. I can't –" It was too much. Just when his life was settled once more… Was he ever to have peace! Now he was finally rid of the war, settled back in his job, about to marry Mary… For the first time in years, he was _settled_, and though he'd been preparing for this he had never imagined it so soon…

"Of course you are!" Isobel snapped brusquely, straightening up. She couldn't allow him to wallow into insecurity, it wouldn't do. Bolstering him like this, anyway, helped take her own mind off her grief. "You are, and you can, Matthew. But not tonight. Bed. Rest."

Slowly, he nodded. "Thanks," he murmured softly.

Isobel decided to lead by example. She was utterly drained. She kissed his head once more, rubbed his arm, and went to the door.

"Goodnight, my son," she said softly.

"Goodnight Mother," he whispered, not caring whether or not she could hear.

Though he knew he should take her advice, he remained sitting, for a long time, until the fire ebbed to softly glowing embers. It seemed silly, really, he'd been so used to suffering loss, life snatched away without a moment's warning… But that was in France, there was a war on, and now there was not and it was _Robert_… And he was the Earl.

When he eventually retired to bed, sleep did not come easily to the new Lord Grantham.

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><p>As he walked down the long drive – today, it seemed longer than it ever had before – trepidation filled Matthew's breast. There were only three times previously he had been this terrified by the prospect of arrival. The very first time he'd seen it, looming up strange and unfamiliar, an imposing statement against everything that defined him (save his heritage). The first time he'd returned, with two years of war and resentment behind him, a young woman on his arm just as terrified as he. And when he'd been brought in, unable to carry himself unaided, everyone believing him to be a hero, and he wanting to cower away from their pitying, sorrowful stares.<p>

And now... A deep, trembling sigh left his chest, and he cast his eyes around as he walked. Everything – every blade of grass, stone of gravel, every tree and brick and gate – all of it was tinged with the unsettling awareness that every scrap of it now belonged to him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of stabbing reminders, he faced up to the grand front door – his front door, he supposed – and rang the bell. Was it ironic, to do so? He wasn't sure.

It took a long time for it to open. Understandable, he thought. He couldn't imagine what state they'd all be in, he wasn't sure he could help it in any way, but he'd known he should at least be here. Even Molesley, that morning, had been out of sorts – had stumbled over how to address Matthew now that he was technically Lord Grantham – no, it did not seem to roll naturally off the tongue, after Robert had been such a figurehead. In Matthew's eyes, Robert Crawley _was_ Lord Grantham – that was the be all and end all of it – he wondered if he'd ever shake the feeling of being an imposter. He might have found Molesley's trips of the tongue amusing if he wasn't so unnerved by it himself.

When the door eventually opened, Carson was on the other side, looking wearied and drawn. Matthew's tense expression immediately softened in sympathy as the butler offered him a small, tight smile.

"Ah. We've been expecting you, Lord Grantham. Do come in."

"Don't, Carson, please," Matthew said quietly as he stepped through.

"Begging your pardon, Sir, but – that is your title, now." Carson sounded kind, if sad.

"Apparently so," Matthew sighed. "Look, Carson, I'm terribly sorry – you understand that it's very strange for me. For everyone. God, it's difficult."

"Yes, your Lordship. It is."

For a moment, a look of shared understanding passed between them, each accepting the other's position. Matthew didn't know how long Carson had been loyal to the family, but he was willing to bet it may well have been longer than his own life. They understood each other.

"I promise I'll do my best, you know – as much as I can." He smiled apologetically, and the elderly butler smiled back. Matthew wasn't oblivious to the fact that Carson's favour of him fluctuated in tandem with his relationship with Mary, but he appreciated it when it was there nevertheless.

"I'm sure you will, m'Lord – and I'm sure you'll do admirably."

"Thank you. I suppose we'll have to see. Where – is everyone? No-one else is sick, are they?" Concern suddenly gripped his chest; in his turmoil over Robert, the potent spread of the virus had not occurred to him.

"No, no. The rest of the family are quite well. As well as can be –"

"Of course. Of course." Relief flooded through him. The very foundations of what he held dear seemed to have been rocked; if Robert could be taken – he didn't dare to think about anyone else falling to it.

With no further ceremony, Carson showed him into the drawing room. Even the very air felt heavy, weighted, depressed. It was as though the house itself were in mourning.

Holding his breath, Matthew stepped through. The bright January sun shone, glinting through the windows, at odds with the melancholy air. Dimly, Matthew heard himself announced as Lord Grantham in Carson's heavy tones, and the next thing he realised was a flash of dark hair and arms throwing themselves around him.

"Matthew! Oh, I'm so glad you're here," Sybil cried into his shoulder. Awkwardly, Matthew clasped her shoulders with a small, comforting rub. It felt like an age since anyone had called him just _Matthew_, and it cheered him just a little.

"I'm sorry I didn't come last night, I wrote as soon as I'd heard, I didn't –" He sighed deeply.

"Well," Edith muttered quietly from where she leaned miserably against the wall. "You're here now, aren't you."

Matthew wasn't sure whether she meant it in insult or gratitude.

"Where's Mary?" he asked, easing Sybil back from him gently and looking sadly at her tear-stained face. "And your mother?"

"Mary's with Mama," Sybil sniffed, stepping back from Matthew and wiping her cheeks.

"Could I – speak with her? Mary, of course, but I'd – like to talk to your mother, as well."

"Of course," Sybil nodded. "I'll take you to them now. Mama's in a terrible state, she'll be glad to see you." She gave him a tight, sad smile, and opened the door for him to follow.

"Thank you. I'm – so sorry."

It seemed such a pathetic thing to say, he thought as he followed Sybil upstairs. _Sorry_. How meaningless. It didn't do anything justice.

They walked in heavy silence through the house, until finally they reached a door upon which Sybil softly tapped, and opened.

"Matthew's here," she said gently. Matthew could see, past her shoulder, that the room was dim, the curtains not drawn.

"Thank goodness." He heard Cora's weak voice drift past. "Please, do show him in."

Sybil nodded and stepped aside, allowing Matthew to move past into the room. Immediately, he saw Cora, reclining on a couch in a black dressing gown that somehow he was sure was Robert's, and beside her on a stool sat Mary, who turned and met his eyes.

His lips parted and he mouthed her name, though no sound emitted. Silently, he questioned her, and saw her squeeze Cora's hand before rising. They passed each other in the centre of the room, Matthew taking her hand lightly as they met.

"Thank you for writing," she whispered. "And for being here."

"Mary..." The only sign on her face of any distress was her red-rimmed eyes. Matthew looked sorrowfully at her, feeling helpless, appreciating the reassurance of her fingers linked with his own. Her lips twitched, and she shook her head.

"There's nothing, you know there's nothing."

He nodded, grateful that she understood. Of course she did.

"I'll be with you soon."

Mary's eyes drifted closed a moment, and she pressed her lips fleetingly to his cheek, before giving his hand one last squeeze and leaving him with Cora. The door closed softly behind her.

Apprehensively, his gut churning, Matthew approached wordlessly and lowered himself to the stool Mary had just vacated. Clasping his hands between his knees, he met Cora's eyes, their expressions making all the conversation they needed.

It occurred to Matthew, vaguely, how terrifically improper it was. But somehow, it didn't seem to matter. Nothing much seemed to matter. He'd wanted to speak with her, wanted her to know how sorry he was, but no words came... until Cora reached out and grasped his hand, smiling weakly.

"He knew he left Downton in good hands, Matthew. So do I."

Matthew bowed his head, his numbness slowly being replaced with true sorrow as he witnessed Cora's strength.

"I hope so," he whispered. "If that's the case, it's only through his guidance."

They sat for a while in silence, somehow not needing to say anything to understand. Eventually, it was Cora again who broke it.

"I think, Matthew, that I shall go to London, as soon as you're settled here."

Matthew raised his head sharply.

"What do you mean?"

Cora smiled through the tears in her eyes. "I mean that, now Downton is yours, I think I'll be perfectly content to remove to London."

Shaking his head, Matthew frowned. "I wish you wouldn't. It's your home. Please, don't leave on my account, I couldn't bear that."

"But it isn't, is it?" Cora sighed, clasping his hand a little tighter to draw strength from him. "This was mine and Robert's home, Matthew. It isn't my home without him, I wouldn't want it to be. It is yours now – it is to be yours and Mary's."

Matthew's expression softened as he understood her. Licking his lips, he slowly considered that the thought of Downton as his _and Mary's_ home seemed a lot less daunting than his alone. He gave a small nod.

"Then stay until the wedding, won't you? And as long after that as you like. You'll be in Grantham House in London, I suppose?"

"Oh Matthew," Cora shook her head, with grace in her resignation. "Dear Matthew, Grantham House is yours as well and you shall be needing it! No, no, I'll stay with Rosamund, and be perfectly content."

Everything felt heavy in his chest, as though his heart were beating treacle. He wanted to make it right, make it better, and deep down he knew that the only way to do that (save turning back the clock) was to assume his responsibilities, his mantle, with vigour, but... it was all so daunting.

For a while longer, Matthew sat with Cora, talking occasionally, both mutually recognising their strange plight. When Edith peered around the door some time later, Matthew left appreciative for the quiet support Cora had given him, even through her own grief, and hoped that he'd been able to give her a little as well.

"Mary's in the library," Edith whispered as she passed him to take his place.

"Thank you."

It unsettled him, as he walked back through the house, how all the sombrely dressed maids bobbed and bowed their heads, deferring to him, as he passed. All of it went against his instincts, but he held his head high, nodded respectfully back at them and determined to do his best to _act_ like an Earl, even if he most certainly didn't _feel_ like one.

Opening the door to the library, Matthew entered and immediately saw Mary, standing framed by the tall windows. Her back was straight and proud and she stared out, turning when she heard the door. Seeing Matthew, her expression softened, the tension visibility eased from her shoulders. Gently arching an eyebrow, she opened her mouth to speak, but Matthew caught the look in her eye (the same look he'd seen in many people's that morning) and anticipated her.

"Don't call me that, Mary," he said seriously, with the barest hint of well-meant reproach.

She lowered her eyes, smiled, her fingers twirling round her necklace in a gesture of comfort that Matthew hadn't seen in years.

"Matthew," she settled for, her voice sounding small and unsure.

They met, hands instinctively finding each other. She rested her head on his shoulder, sagged a little into him, and he wrapped his arms around her in a tight, comforting embrace. Her hands rested lightly on his chest, and she sighed heavily, deeply enough that he could feel the breath tremble out of her.

Matthew felt the tremor of her shoulders, her hitched breaths against his neck, and realised she was crying. Closing his eyes in sorrow, he kissed the top of her head, and brought his lips to her ear to murmur soft words of comfort to her, stopping when he realised that nothing would do. They both knew it. Sighing gently, he kissed her again and simply held her tighter.

It wouldn't have mattered to Matthew how long it took, but eventually, she sniffed quietly and raised her eyes to his, brushing away her tears.

"Thank you," she whispered, with the smallest of smiles.

He shook his head, as the first tear he'd allowed himself slipped down his cheek.

"Don't be silly," he mumbled shakily.

"I'm not." Mary frowned gently, brushing her hands lightly over his shoulders and chest. "We need you, Matthew. It might not be so apparent to you, but we do. I do."

Matthew bowed his head, and sighed. "No, you need –"

"But he's not here anymore, is he?" Mary countered him firmly. "_You_ are. That's what matters now."

As if to prove her point somehow, she leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. And that seemed to make everything right. After a few steadying breaths, foreheads resting lightly together, Matthew tentatively sought her lips again, and they found it a far more meaningful way to express their sorrow and solidarity. The tender, reassuring kiss strengthened them, bound them in understanding, apologised and accepted and comforted.

When the heavy door clicked open, they sprang apart, though Matthew's hand lingered at Mary's elbow. She hastily wiped her eyes, blinking at Carson who stood impassively in the doorway. If he had witnessed anything, you would not have been able to tell it.

"Forgive me, Lord Grantham; Murray is here and wondered if now might be a convenient time to discuss matters with you."

Turning first to Mary to seek her approval (though he didn't need it, he still desired it), Matthew raised his eyebrows and nodded at Carson.

"I suppose it's as good a time as any," he accepted. He paused, hesitating a moment before he gave the order. "Do show him in." It took him that moment to remind himself that it was _his_ library now, and it was his place to invite people into it.

"Very well, your Lordship," Carson dipped his head and went out to retrieve the aging family solicitor.

"I suppose I must leave you to it!" Mary smiled gently and stepped away from Matthew. Running her hand down his arm, she caught his eye with a glimmer in her own, cocking her head as if in thought. "It suits you, you know – your Lordship."

Squeezing his arm, she pressed one last kiss to his startled lips and left him in anticipation.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading :) I hope it wasn't too boring! Thoughts/reviews/comments will be massively appreciated! If there's anything you'd like to see in an earl!Matthew fic, do just let me know, as I haven't thought through much in advance at all._

_Thank you! :)_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: _Well, now HB's back for series 3 it looks like my scenario here is off the cards... :P It's actually strangely depressing to think that when I started this fic, it was a genuine possibility still! Oh well... Thanks a bunch, Fellowes..._

_Anyway! I know this is different in tone to most fics that are popping up at the moment_ _(much needed catharsis or epic denial FLUFF, both equally vital for my sanity), but I hope you'll still enjoy it. Thank you so much for your comments and feedback on chapter 2, it means a great deal to me!_

_Onwards...!_

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><p><strong><span>Chapter Three<span>**

The day seemed to pass by in a whirl, long hours of paperwork and signatures and contracts with Murray broken by a snatched lunch on a tray, a miserable meeting with Clarkson and the man from Grassby's to discuss arrangements, frequent interruptions by Carson and Mrs Hughes who, though they meant well, were bothering him with distractions that he really couldn't face... There was so much spinning through his head, so much to think of, that the precise wording to be printed in the next day's papers in announcement was the very least of his concerns. Thankfully, Mary had happened past the library just as Matthew's agitation began to boil dry, and she ushered the well-meaning butler away with instructions that all matters beyond the absolutely necessary must be brought to her, and not to Matthew.

By the time Murray had left, and Matthew had sorted all the documents into some sort of order (after looking through each again, to satisfy himself that he understood it), he was exhausted. Thank goodness he had an eye for paperwork. Though he'd worked hard in the years before the war to familiarise himself with the business of the estate, the sheer extent of the matter facing him now had left him in a daze. That, on top of having to think about arrangements for the funeral, matters of staffing that he hadn't even begun to think of... Cora shouldn't be burdened with it now, but... God. Unable to face any more, he went to the ornately carved desk, and picked up the key from the little drawer hidden under the lip. He opened it to put all the papers back in, but as he did so, he found himself faced with contents that twisted at his heart.

Oh, it was nothing much... Only those little, personal effects that made up something of a man's life. A photograph of Cora, and of each of the girls – he recognised it from the year before the war. Picking up that of Mary, he turned it over gently in his fingers, but there was nothing written there. He placed it back. Some letters lay in one recess, an engraved cigar case in another... He couldn't bring himself to look any further. It felt such an intrusion. He settled for slipping those papers he might need into the top of the drawer, and resolved to ask Mary to look through it all when she was ready to.

That done, he finally allowed himself to slump into the deep, red settee by the fire. The dark had fallen what felt like hours ago, and some poor unassuming housemaid had borne the brunt of Matthew's frustration when she asked his permission to light the logs in the grate. Yes, of course she may get on with it, did she imagine he'd refuse? He was tired, so tired, and so deeply downhearted. Responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders, and he couldn't imagine the burden lightening any time in the near future.

Mary. She was his one bright spot, the one thing he had to look forward to. Thank God he had her.

It was a little over an hour later when he awoke with a start, at the unexpected feel of wetness on his fingers. His hand withdrew in shock, and he looked down to see Isis staring placidly up at him, with deep, sad eyes.

"Oh dear, my girl," Matthew said quietly as he rubbed the dog's ears affectionately. "I bet you've been feeling rotten today as well, haven't you." His lips twitched into a smile at Isis' answering whimper. Matthew had grown quite fond of her steadfast company during his recuperation at the Abbey, what felt like a lifetime ago now. It seemed she had not forgotten.

He was startled again by a low, gentle laugh just in front of him.

"Mary!" He sat up suddenly, face tightening into a grimace as his back protested from the uncomfortable position he'd slumped to.

"I hope you've had a pleasant sleep," Mary said softly from the opposite settee, hands clasped demurely in her lap. "I'm not surprised you're worn out. I'll ring for some supper, there's no need to move." She stood up smoothly, pulled the bell cord and returned, taking a place next to him this time when he lifted his arm to accommodate her. She rested her head on his shoulder, hand falling to lie on his leg where she could just tickle Isis' nose if she stretched her fingers, the melancholy dog having also sought a place to rest on his knee.

It was only moments before Carson appeared at the end of the room.

"Oh, Carson," Mary shuffled up a little straighter. She doubted anyone would mind, today of all days, but still she thought it perhaps best not to be quite so visibly relaxed in affection in her father's library. No – Matthew's library, she corrected herself with a little sigh. She turned, expecting him to speak, but realised he had drifted off again, so she addressed Carson herself.

She tried a smile, and took a breath. "Lord Grantham hasn't had supper yet – could you have a tray sent up please?"

"Of course. And, anything for yourself, my Lady?"

"No, Carson, thank you. That will be all."

"Very good." The butler made as if to leave, but paused, addressing Mary unusually hesitantly. "Shall – I have a room made up for his Lordship?"

"Oh." Somehow, that hadn't occurred to Mary, but of course it made sense. This was his home, now, after all. She looked at Matthew, whose lips were parted gently in sleep, then back at Carson. "Let me speak to him first. I'll let you know presently."

"Thank you, my Lady." Carson nodded respectfully and left, leaving them once more alone in the weighty quiet.

With a deep sigh, Mary shifted around and looked at Matthew properly. She'd barely seen him all day, and she had wanted to be with him so desperately. Now, his head lay back against the tall cushions, and he looked so peaceful… Such a contrast to the weary, taut frown he'd been wearing earlier. She didn't envy him any of it. Today, she'd caught just a glimpse of the pressures on him, and suddenly her role within that had become strikingly clear – to stand by his side, supporting him, easing it for him, taking what strain of the burden she could – just as her mother had done for her father for years – just as she would do, would be happy to do, as his wife. Her mother had prepared her for the responsibility, but she'd never appreciated it – oh, she'd been prepared for it, had spent her entire youth being brought up to it – but then, it had only seemed a far off duty. A role she was expected to play. Now, she wanted it, felt a deep-seated desire to fulfil it, for his sake – they would manage this. Together. It was all they could do.

Reluctantly, she rubbed his arm gently, then touched his cheek, until he stirred.

"Mm?" He mumbled, as he blinked at her sleepily, shifting himself to sit up a little. "Oh. God, sorry. I'm so tired, Mary…"

"I know," she gave him a small smile. "Well! Your supper will arrive shortly, and Carson will prepare a room for you if you like. You can take your pick of the bedrooms, of course, only I imagine you shan't want Papa's –"

"No!" Matthew exclaimed, straightening sharply as he roused. Mary's eyes widened at his reaction. "I mean – no, that's not necessary, I'll go home."

"But Matthew, it's late," her voice was all hushed concern, and her brow lightly creased. "And you know you'll need to be here again in the morning, and – well, I know it's difficult, but you must begin to think of this as your home, now. It must be."

"So everyone keeps telling me!" he snapped. His expression quickly turned to apology at Isis' distressed whine at his feet, and how he felt Mary stiffen. Shaking his head, he took her hands, clasping them reassuringly between them as he turned towards her. "I'm sorry. But it doesn't – it can't feel like home, and – it _won__'__t_, not until… Not until it's _our_home, Mary."

Cora's sentiment rang in his mind. Downton _was_ Mary. That was all there was to it, all there ever had been to it, in his mind. "I imagine you'll think it silly, but I can never see Downton as my home until I share it with you. You must know that."

"Oh, Matthew…" She looked sorrowfully at him, tugging a hand free to clasp his face. "You can't mean to remain the Earl of Grantham at Crawley House until we are married – whenever that might be, now!"

"What do you mean?" His grip on her hand tightened. As if able to sense some distress (beyond the obvious, for this day), Isis nuzzled at his knee with a soft whine. Matthew distractedly scratched at the back of her head as he frowned at Mary, uneasy panic pooling in his gut . "Whenever that might be – our wedding is in two weeks!"

"We couldn't possibly, now, not with my father... I want to – oh, darling, you can only believe it – but propriety forbids it." A gentle, longing sigh slipped past her lips as she gazed at him. Fate dealt such cruel blows. An event that made them ache for each other's comfort in the same beat delayed their happiness.

Matthew's lips pursed in agitation. "Damn," was all he could eventually manage, as his face fell. It was more than that; he deflated entirely. "How long?" he asked weakly.

Mary could only shrug sadly. "Two, three months?" A quiet, bitter laugh rang in the air. "We should count ourselves lucky; before the war it would've been six at least, but that seems so ridiculous now. But we must leave enough time for proper respect."

"God." He sighed heavily, and sagged forwards until his forehead touched hers. They embraced, spent a few sweet moments in mutual comfort. Matthew trembled with weariness, sadness, responsibility; his one ray of light had been dimmed. "I love you," he whispered.

"I know, darling," she murmured in response.

"I'm sorry." The apology carried so much.

Leaning back once more, Matthew raised his eyes heavenward and pursed his lips, retaining a tight clasp of Mary's hand. "I don't think I've done very well, today," he said deeply.

"Matthew…"

"No. I've sulked about, snapped at people, I missed both lunch and dinner entirely, let alone being dressed for it. I've not been fair at all."

"And no-one expects anything more of you – of course it's difficult! You can only take each matter as it comes, and I've no doubt – and neither did Papa – that you will be a very fine, and a very fair Earl." She looked pleadingly at him as her voice broke.

Matthew suddenly felt the most encompassing wave of disappointment in himself.

"Oh, Mary…" As her lip trembled, he drew her into his arms and held her in a tight, comforting embrace. "I'm so, so sorry." How had he been so unthinking, so selfish, so stupid? She'd lost her father, and here he was feeling sorry for himself. Good Lord. "I'm sorry," he repeated uselessly in a soft whisper against her ear, unable to communicate any more.

"Please, don't," Mary wept. Wiping her eyes, she leant back in his arms, blinking sadly at him. "Don't apologise as though he meant any deal less to you than he did to me, to all of us."

Pressing his lips together bitterly, Matthew shook his head. "I know." His voice shook as the emotion he'd forced back all day now began to overwhelm him in his exhaustion. "As much as he valued me as a son, I – I just hope he knew that I…" And he couldn't speak any more. They grieved together, stealing the chance of tears with tender kisses that covered their distress as they held each other for support.

By the next morning, Matthew's head had cleared a little. Another day. It had still taken a moment for the reality to settle upon him when he woke, but this morning Molesley did not stumble over his title, and as he approached the Abbey once more he felt a greater determination than the weighty grief he'd felt the day before.

Again, it seemed to take an age longer than usual for the bell to be answered. It did occur to Matthew, this time, that he was perfectly within his rights to simply walk in... But he couldn't quite bring himself to, not yet. Not just yet.

When Carson did finally answer, Matthew was met with a far warmer smile than the heavy, regretful one than he'd received yesterday. It seemed that Matthew was not the only one whose acceptance of the situation had much benefitted from another night's sleep.

"Good morning, Carson," his smile was a little brighter.

"Good morning, your Lordship. Do come through," Carson immediately stood back, holding the door.

Matthew's mouth had barely opened to ask after the family this morning when he caught a glimpse through the glass panels of the door into the hall.

"Carson..."

With a small smile of pride, Carson stepped ahead of him once more and swung open the inner doors. As Matthew went through, lips parting into speechlessness, Mary gracefully appeared by his side.

"Lord Grantham," her low voice echoed into the height of the room as she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. "May I formally introduce to you, your staff."

A veritable army of housemaids and footmen (well, mainly housemaids, now), cooks, gardeners, stablehands and all the rest faced Matthew, lined up in formal rows. So it seemed, to Matthew at least, for really there were not so very many since the war – still, a great deal more than Matthew had somehow ever realised, now that he saw them all together.

Overwhelmed, he faltered; but took a step ahead of Mary when he felt her hand supportively at his back, clearing his throat as everyone seemed to be looking expectantly at him.

"Well – what a welcome!" And what a stupid thing to say, he groaned internally as he moistened his lips. He had to say _something_… A frown flew over his face, and he started again, with a little more confidence. "I – know what a horrible, and uncertain, time this is – for all of us." He gave what he hoped was a reassuring look towards the sea of merging faces in front of him, only wishing that it could work on himself. He felt sick. Taking a deep breath, he warmed into his speech. "My gratitude goes out to you for maintaining your work so smoothly around such turmoil. I have very little hope, if any, of matching the decent, fair master that my cousin was to you – and can only promise you that I shall do my best, and ask that you bear with me while I try to do it."

As he spoke, he caught the eye of the maid he'd snapped at the day before, and she smiled at him. The kindness and understanding made Matthews' breath stick in his throat, and he couldn't say any more. If he'd felt unworthy yesterday, it only felt amplified now.

He flinched in surprise when Mary's voice murmured into his ear, "You did very well, darling. Quite the Earl, don't fret." He turned to catch her small, encouraging smile, and reached for her hand gratefully, when Mrs Hughes took a step forward.

"If you'd like to come with me, your Lordship," she held out an arm invitingly. "I'll give you a full tour of the working parts of the house – Mr Carson believed you'd not have seen much of it."

"I haven't – thank you," Matthew shook his head. He'd not even thought of that – another thing he had not much clue about. He vaguely remembered having been shown around soon after he'd arrived, but that was so many years ago now...

While Carson dismissed the staff back to their duties, Matthew followed Mrs Hughes, keeping Mary in close tow behind. Already, he knew it would be another long, long day.

Some time later, back in the relative comfort and quiet of the library (he was beginning to appreciate why this had been Robert's favoured room of the house), Matthew closed another folder full of lists and tables and numbers with a sigh. Looking at his watch, he wondered if he might actually escape for some lunch today... He stood up with the intention of seeking out Mary – whatever the luncheon arrangements, he was in dire need of some social interaction – he expected she'd be with her mother, still secluded upstairs in mourning. He couldn't blame her.

Before he could reach the door, though, it opened ahead of him and Bates walked heavily in.

"I do beg your pardon, your Lordship – might I talk to you briefly? Mr Carson believed you'd be in here, still."

"Of course," Matthew retreated to the desk, and hovered uncertainly by it – just as uncertainly as Bates, who looked really quite unsure of himself. "What can I help you with?"

Matthew was strangely touched that the valet should seek to ask him something, indicating a certain trust; at the same time as wondering what it might be. He supposed he'd better start getting used to things like this.

Bates shifted on his feet, before meeting Matthew's eyes. "It's only – you will need to forgive my impertinence, Sir, but I'm aware there's a lot you must be thinking about, and so felt I must ask."

"You needn't apologise to ask me anything, Bates, you know that," Matthew said warmly.

"Thank you, your Lordship. You see, as you know, my function within this household was the sole duty of valet to – the late – Lord Grantham. I'm sorry to say I've not fulfilled all the extra duties one might normally associate with such a role, but it was always understood that –"

"There's no need to explain that to me, I understand perfectly," Matthew reassured him. The man was clearly nervous.

"Yes, of course," Bates nodded. "If – I might be frank with you, Sir, I was rather wondering whether I could still be of any service to you. I'm aware you've your own valet, and I don't want to impose on that, certainly not. But if I may speak very plainly, I'm afraid my chance at another position would be small, and I've Anna to think of –"

"No, no, of course," Matthew frowned. Bates fell silent.

Not for the first time, Matthew's blood ran cold at the terrifying realisation of the power of his role. To hire and dismiss these people, with the potential to snatch away their very livelihoods, to ruin them… Robert's words had never left him, the advice granted him so soon after his arrival, when he'd been so ignorant… How stupid he'd been! '_We__ all __have __our __parts __to __play, __and__ must__ all __be __allowed __to __play __them_'.

Bates had been good to him. He'd been a good friend to Robert, and had served Matthew very well during his recovery, but then, Matthew did already have Molesley, who knew him and his habits and quirks so well now… Still, Matthew had been grateful for it and, having faced the terrifying prospect of life without the use of his legs, had an unusual sympathy for Bates' plight. Of course he'd struggle to find a position, and yes, there was Anna – he knew the pair were married and lived elsewhere on the estate, he could hardly throw one out without the other!

He paced, feeling the depressing weight of decision, the weight of a man's future, his life. No, he couldn't do it. With sudden resolve, he turned back to Bates.

"Of course you must stay," he said simply, and saw the older man's shoulders visibly drop in relief. Matthew smiled. "Anything else would be unthinkable."

"Thank you, your Lordship. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your kindness."

"Please, Bates, it's only right." Matthew's mind turned over, and he took an encouraging step forward. "I think – Molesley has served my mother admirably well as butler at Crawley House, I see no need for that to discontinue – and this way I might keep both of you on. I'll settle it with him very soon."

For the first time, as Bates left him, Matthew smiled to himself – wondering if he might, at last, have handled something right.

Within a week, a week that absolutely whirled by, Matthew found himself lying in a large, unfamiliar bed looking up at a high, unfamiliar canopy, underneath a tall, unfamiliar ceiling. All his things had now been moved across from Crawley House – it felt very, very strange to see his books, and clothes, and belongings in these much grander apartments. His whole life had shifted, changed. His case files lay, unattended, on a desk in the adjoining room (something which he'd insisted upon) – though he hadn't yet decided how that was going to work, now, or if it even could. The firm had mercifully given him some time off to arrange his affairs, but he knew that time was running out. To give it up seemed unthinkable, but to carry on equally so.

Lord Grantham, working day to day in Ripon. As soon as he actually heard the words, he laughed aloud at the absurdity of it.

The room was large, far larger than anything he was used to, and cold. The fire in the hearth did little to warm him. He lay on his back, and looked to the side, at the unfamiliar walls, the unfamiliar patterning around the door… Was this home, now?

Restless, he stood, walked to the door. Placing a hand upon it, he thought of Mary – so near, only down the corridor, and yet so impossibly far. With a heavy sigh, he rested his forehead against the cold wood. How could he bear another three months of this? She was already his Countess, this was already their home – in so many ways.

Just not in the way that could grant him any comfort, any relief from the cold, empty silence of this room.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading! Reviews are very much appreciated and would be lovely, but generally I just hope you enjoyed it! :) Thank you!_


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